


An Ill Conceived Arrangement

by leashy_bebes



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, but fully consensual, kinda rough sex, mainly rough build up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leashy_bebes/pseuds/leashy_bebes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Gwaine have an arrangement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ill Conceived Arrangement

At the midnight bell, Gwaine leans out of his window and cranes his neck. Up and to the left is Arthur's bedchamber. There is a candle burning on the sill. Gwaine almost doesn't go. Arthur is a spoilt brat. He always wants more than he has, even when what he has would keep most men thanking their lucky stars for a lifetime. But then... Arthur will be waiting, and he'll take it out of Gwaine's hide at training in the morning if he doesn't show. Although really, Gwaine knows he can handle Arthur in a bad mood. What gets Gwaine dressing hastily and out into the cold corridor is less the idea of Arthur's mood if he doesn't turn up than the image Arthur will present when he does.

He usually waits in his finest chair, dressed for bed, hands curled into fists on his knees; tense and anxious and only just this side of unhappy. He never sends Gwaine away, though, and after all, he's the one to light the candle, the unspoken 'come to me'. Gwaine never seeks him out, or tries to call Arthur to him. There are times, after a hard training session, or after people have died because of something the knights did, didn't do, should have done, when he really wants to. He feels like one day he will. One day he'll make a demand and Arthur will give in, somewhere potentially embarrassing. He amuses himself with thoughts of Arthur on his knees in the middle of the practice field in the dawn light, sucking him off, trying to make it so good that Gwaine comes before the others arrive.

The idea keeps him warm up two flights of stairs and along an icy corridor. There are no guards outside Arthur's doors, never are on these nights. Gwaine enters without knocking and Arthur's on him before he's even closed the door. That's unusual, and Gwaine wonders what happened today to make Arthur like this. Arthur's urgency slams into Gwaine with the first touch. He kicks the door shut behind himself, hands coming up between them to hold Arthur at a distance for a second.

Arthur glares and knocks Gwaine's hands away, hauling him closer. It's not an embrace, but it's not an attack either. Arthur's face is buried in Gwaine's neck, mouth working helplessly at his skin, breath coming in ragged gusts. Not for the first time, Gwaine finds himself wondering __what is it? What is it you see in me and why do you need it?__ Arthur doesn't offer any answers, his hands already engaged in their usual scrambling quest for skin.

Arthur's too eager though, and that's his downfall. While he's grasping and grabbing, pressing the shape of his hands all over Gwaine's body, Gwaine is thinking, working out, and _there_. It's easy to spot the moment Arthur's slightly off balance, easier still to exploit it with a single push. Then they're staggering across the room, Gwaine's hands finding the bottom of Arthur's sleep tunic and pulling it up until Arthur is half naked. He's striking, all tousled hair and eyes gone almost all to black, his chest heaving, the fire casting red and black shades across his fair skin.

The silence, the stillness, can only last so long and sure enough, Arthur lunges for Gwaine again, a bitten-off cry escaping his throat. Arthur is never this sloppy when he's playing to win. Because it's not always like this. Some nights, some unnameable emotion roars up behind Arthur's eyes and he takes and takes and takes, and it's Gwaine who ends up bent over the table, or face down in Arthur's sumptuous bed. Not tonight, though.

Arthur always has the odd scattering of bruises and scratches from training, and no one will notice the extras, the ones Arthur asks for with his eyes and his thrice-damned attitude. So Gwaine's no more gentle than Arthur, matches him grab for grab and scratch for scratch. It's not always like this, Gwaine doesn't always best him, but tonight he is in no mood. Gwaine's at the advantage, still mostly dressed, and there's a thud as they collide with the wall, Gwaine fitting his body along every inch of Arthur's and pressing forward harder, hard enough that Arthur winces as his shoulders, back and hips are ground into the wall.

"What's the matter?" Gwaine taunts. "Fight gone out of you already?"

It works. Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a snarl and a whine, and lurches forward. Their mouths collide and Gwaine spares a rueful moment to wonder when this – this slamming together like rocks, crumbling, and staggering away dazed – became their version of fighting. Then he's returning the kiss with equal fervour, biting when he gets the chance, sucking hard on Arthur's tongue, his lips. Everything about Arthur tonight is combative and aggressive. Gwaine has given up wondering what it is that fuels these nights in Arthur.

Whatever his reason, Gwaine is in no mood to give into him. Not tonight. Because the knights are run ragged, because Merlin looks permanently exhausted, because... Well, just because. Gwaine tangles one foot around Arthur's ankle and tugs, using the momentum to spin Arthur around, grabbing a wrist in each hand. The thud as Arthur hits the wall chest-first is loud, but they both know he can take it. The thought turns Gwaine on, sends sharp-edged desire curling through him. He pulls one of Arthur's arms up high behind his back, keeps the other pressed tight between their bodies. The angle must be uncomfortable, but Arthur doesn't protest other than to gasp in a breath when Gwaine mouths at the back of his neck, lewd and wet.

"I win," Gwaine says into Arthur's ear, even as Arthur bucks and Gwaine has to haul his arm higher up his back to keep him still. "I _said_ I win," he repeats.

Arthur grunts, wordless, and Gwaine tightens his grip again, just because he can (and a little bit because Arthur's daring him to).

"Say it," Gwaine pushes.

"What?" Arthur asks, breathing hard.

"Say I win," Gwaine says, and he can't help a mad smile, hides it against the side of Arthur's throat.

" _No_ ," Arthur says through gritted teeth.

"Say it, or I leave right now."

A pause, and then, "You wouldn't." Arthur doesn't sound too sure.

"Maybe not," Gwaine admits. "Shall we find out?"

There's a silence, their bodies relaxing until Arthur could break the grip with a shrug.

"You win," he says. "Alright? You win."

Gwaine lets the words settle into the air around them for a moment. Then, "One more time."

It's too much of course, and Arthur positively snarls. He almost breaks free of Gwaine's hold but Gwaine hauls him back at the last minute and suddenly he's pressing Arthur into the wall as hard as ever, until Arthur protests with an annoyed cry and one last wrench of his wrists before he sags and says, almost too quiet to hear, "You win."

It's enough.

Gwaine turns him around roughly, not giving him chance to catch a breath before kissing him again. Both of his hands are cupping Arthur's face this time, working Arthur's lips open and licking into his mouth, as filthy and demanding as he knows how. He nudges Arthur away long enough to tug his own shirt over his head. Before Arthur can even think of capitalising on the moment Gwaine crowds close to him, curling his fingers into Arthur's hair with the threat of a sharp tug never far away.

There's a second, just a _second_ where everything's too still, Arthur just looking at him. With anyone else, like this, it would be...nice. Enjoyable, even. But it doesn't suit them, and Arthur's gaze quickly turns into a glare.

"If you aren't going to – "

"On your knees," Gwaine interrupts, and Arthur pulls that face, the one that says _you can't speak to me like that_. "Sorry. On your knees, _your highness_."

This time Arthur does as he's told, and he must _really_ want it tonight, because Gwaine normally has to push him at least halfway down. He doesn't look at Gwaine, an industrious frown on his face as he picks at the sloppily tied laces on Gwaine's breeches. Not for the first time, Gwaine wonders what Arthur thinks in this moment, whether he's thinking about someone in particular. Gwaine thinks it's more likely that Arthur's mind is a roaring silence right now, the kind of peace-in-chaos that in Gwaine's experience can only be found in fighting, fucking, and the bottle.

He lets Arthur have the moment until he feels warm fingers against his cock. Then he has to curl his hand under Arthur's chin and force his head up. There is something about the slow swoop of dark lashes over very blue eyes, about the flush of lust-shame-defiance high on his cheeks that Gwaine can never resist. He doesn't know what Arthur's excuse for this would be, but that one look is all the reason Gwaine needs.

This is the most dangerous moment. Orders, instructions, even encouragement are sometimes enough to end it here, so Gwaine bites his lip and watches Arthur in silence. It's now, with Arthur on his knees, looking at Gwaine like he's sizing up an opponent on the field, that Gwaine sometimes feels unexpected flickers of genuine affection. Arthur is a prat, there's no questioning that, but sometimes he is so _earnest_. He reaches forward, strokes a thumb over Arthur's lower lip and promptly has his hand batted away. Gwaine can't hide a smirk, and Arthur glares up at him, but his grand retaliatory gesture seems to consist largely of taking Gwaine into his mouth, fast and deep.

Gwaine has no complaints there, so he just lets out a huff of breath, watching as his cock stretches Arthur's lips. Arthur is good at this – very good, because God forbid Princess Prat be anything less than perfect at whatever he turns his hand to – but it's obviously not _really_ what he wants, not tonight, at least. Gwaine can't resist though; Arthur's mouth is too hot and too sweet to give up just like that. He pushes deeper and Arthur's eyes narrow in warning. Gwaine ignores him and does it again, until Arthur splutters and pulls away.

"Don't be an ass," he says crossly.

His lips are so wet and red that Gwaine almost doesn't reply. He catches himself though, turns hesitation into a grasping, squeezing stroke of his own cock, and asks, "What? Seems fairly obvious you're _itching_ to get fucked tonight."

Arthur colours, but he grits out, "Not like that."

"Come on," Gwaine says. "A little more and then I'll give you what you want." He waits until Arthur's mouth is on him again to murmur "Don't I always?"

Arthur's hands have found their way to Gwaine's thighs and they clench at that. Gwaine's not sure if it's from embarrassment because that's true, or irritation because it's not. With one hand on Arthur's shoulder, Gwaine takes his mouth, refusing to let him set a pace, slow and deep, and then rapid and shallow thrusts as the mood takes him.

When he pulls back, Arthur wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and mutters, "I don't know why I even – "

Nothing more is said, so after a moment Gwaine just nods once and says, "Get on the bed."

Miraculously Arthur doesn't argue the instructions, just unfolds himself gracefully from his knees and crosses the room. He sits on the edge of the bed and Gwaine laughs. "Oh, no. How am I meant to fuck you like that? Hands and knees, princess."

Arthur grudgingly does as he's told and the sight pushes Gwaine's arousal higher. Wondering just how far he can push it tonight, he crosses the room on quiet feet. Arthur always leaves oil within easy reach on these nights, and Gwaine picks up the vial and drops it onto the bed next to Arthur's hand.

"Get yourself ready," he says, and then steps back, keen to watch Arthur's internal struggle. His body, every golden, perfect inch of it is tense. He eventually does it though, taking his weight on one elbow to unstopper the vial. He gets his fingers covered in oil, but then Gwaine has to scoop up the little bottle before it goes everywhere. Arthur reaches back behind himself, widens the splay of his legs and works a single finger into himself. Gwaine wets his suddenly dry lips and shifts on his feet, moving to find a better angle, where the shadows don't obscure what Arthur's doing. Gwaine strips himself fully while he watches, and can't resist curling his hand around his cock and stroking, just a couple of times. A soft hiss escapes from between clenched teeth. Arthur tenses and he knows what Gwaine is doing, must do, from the rhythmic sound of it, from Gwaine's suddenly unsteady breath.

Arthur's being quick about his preparations, obviously annoyed at having to put on a show for Gwaine's pleasure, so Gwaine moves to kneel behind him on the bed, one finger tracing the stretch, running over Arthur's slick knuckles. Arthur's breath catches but he doesn't stop and so Gwaine upends the little bottle, sending a thick trail of oil dribbling slowly down into Arthur's crack, easing his movements still further. It's breathtakingly easy for Gwaine to slide one of his fingers in alongside both of Arthur's. Arthur makes an odd noise, like the breath has been knocked out of him and says Gwaine's name in a shaky voice, just that, just once.

It's as close to pleading as he's ever likely to get. Knowing the tenderness of the gesture will unsettle Arthur, he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the small of Arthur's back. Sure enough, Arthur makes a quiet noise of protest and presses his fingers deeper as though to remind Gwaine what they're there for. As if he could forget.

"Enough," he says and Arthur stops immediately, working his fingers free and scrambling up onto hands and knees again. Gwaine presses two fingers back inside and the glare Arthur sends over his shoulder loses a lot of its heat because Gwaine can go deeper than Arthur did at his awkward angle.

They've done this often enough for Gwaine to know just how to shut Arthur up. He pushes in deep. God, he could play here for hours if they had the time, driving Arthur steadily madder, so he'll say and do whatever takes Gwaine's fancy. Not now though, not tonight. Not when Arthur is already snarling and snapping, and not when Gwaine just wants so much it makes his head spin.

He spreads Arthur's cheeks with one hand and hears Arthur suck in a breath, hold it, only to exhale noisily when Gwaine just rubs the head of his cock back and forth over that pink little hole. Arthur makes a ragged, demanding noise and Gwaine decides to have mercy, one slow inward push, further and further until his hips meet the curve of Arthur's arse. Gwaine curls his free hand around Arthur's hip, oily fingers slipping a little so he drags blunt fingernails slowly up the length of Arthur's rib cage. Arthur wriggles a bit, pushing back against him and making Gwaine's breath catch in his throat.

" _What_?" Arthur asks, and his voice is rough and ragged, but still filled with every little bit of superiority he can muster. "F – fight gone out of you already?"

The noise Gwaine makes isn't exactly a laugh, but he _is_ quite amused. He runs his hand up the length of Arthur's spine, knots his fingers through Arthur's golden hair and tugs in the same moment as he starts moving his hips in a quick, unforgiving rhythm.

" _Ah_!"

After that first noise Arthur catches himself and all Gwaine hears is the ragged rasp of his breath, muffled into the pillows. He tucks away each noise like that, counting it as a victory, as a sign that whatever _this_ is, Gwaine is not the only one who needs it.

"Come _on_ ," Arthur says after a moment.

Gwaine frowns, tugs roughly on Arthur's hair. " _You_ come on. You want it that badly, you can fuck yourself on my cock."

For a moment there's nothing but tense silence from Arthur and then a little cry spills from his lips and he does as Gwaine says. Gwaine can't take his eyes off the spot where their bodies are joined, watches the slow grasping slide as Arthur works Gwaine's cock deeper, before rocking forward on his knees, in and out. The first stuttering squeezes of his body make Gwaine catch his breath, one hand still in Arthur's hair, the other on his hip, feeling the way he moves, the easy flex of his body.

Gwaine twists his hips in a way he knows will drag another cry out of Arthur. Sure enough it does, and his arms buckle to leave him on his elbows, face pressed to the pillow, and Gwaine thinks _yes, this, yes_. This is the moment he loves. The smooth slope of Arthur's spine, the tight clench of his fists in the sheets, the fair hair turned dark with sweat, curling and sticking to the skin at his nape. From this new angle Arthur's movements are stilted, a slow undulation.

"Come on," Gwaine says, his voice ragged. "Faster, sweetheart."

"Do _not_ – " Arthur starts.

Gwaine laughs and leans closer, curls himself around Arthur, mouth close to his ear to say, "Sweetheart. Princess."

" _Fuck_ – " The word explodes out of Arthur, but more frustrated than genuinely angry.

Gwaine is past trying to work out why Arthur likes the things he does, why Gwaine's least respectful, most derisive tones will make his body tighten and shake and the heat inside him leap further. Arthur's fists clench and relax around handfuls of the sheets and when he turns his head to the side to suck in a breath his mouth is slack, red and wet, forming indecipherable words (a name, maybe? The pleas he won't _quite_ allow to escape?). Gwaine has to close his eyes, blink sweat out of them, and toss an infuriating lock of hair away from his face.

When he opens his eyes next Arthur has snaked one hand in between the bed and his body and is practically writhing on Gwaine's cock. Arthur can never hold his tongue when he's this close and he lets out whimpers and sharp cries every time Gwaine thrusts into his hot, pliant body. The hard muscles of his upper arm are just visible, flexing fast, and then he's coming, shoving back clumsily against Gwaine. There can surely be nothing better than the way Arthur's body grabs at him, the way Arthur turns his face into the pillow in a failed effort to muffle a cry.

Arthur's always wrung out and useless afterwards, and he'd happily just collapse into the bed and leave Gwaine to his own devices. But Gwaine grabs his hips and pulls him up, fucking in and in and _in_ , and wrecked little sounds escape Arthur's mouth with each huff of breath. Such an arrogant bastard, he has no right to look so soft and really just beautiful, fluttering eyelashes fanned out against the high flush on his skin.

"Enough," Arthur says after a moment, his voice rasping, and Gwaine gives a couple more rolling thrusts before he pulls out – just because he can. Then he strokes himself in fast, economical movements until he comes. Arthur makes a quietly annoyed sound when Gwaine's seed paints a stripe across the small of his back, two more across the pale curve of his buttocks. Gwaine just breathes for a moment, still on his knees, and then sprawls onto his side. Arthur lets out a shuddering sigh and his feet knock Gwaine's legs as he stretches out. Gwaine turns onto his back and looks up at the rich bed-hangings.

In a while he'll dress, make his careful way back to his own rooms, and sleep until the morning bell. Then he will drag himself to training and look at Arthur and _know_ , and know that _Arthur_ knows. They won't mention it. Gwaine will wait to see the candle flickering in Arthur's window and in the mean time he'll entertain himself with memories of this, imaginings of other nights and days still to come, Arthur defiant and sometimes almost ridiculous, but _gorgeous_.

For now though, he just breathes, listens to his racing heart return to its normal beat and pretends not to think it's anything unusual when Arthur's the one to slide out of bed and return with a damp cloth to clean them both up. Gwaine likes to think he's a man of the world, but he's starting to think he will never, ever understand this man, or this ill-conceived arrangement.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on LJ [here](http://leashy-bebes.livejournal.com/203205.html)


End file.
